son's daughter, but most of all he hated Hugh. There was the man who had defeated all his plans. It was Hugh's fists that had knocked him to the earth and that had lashed into his face as he lay unconscious. Night after night, week after week, he had sat—savage as one of his own hounds—staring into the fire. The flames had leaped: and he knew that some time in their lurid glow they would show him his course of action. His only wish was to make payment.
The time in which he might strike was almost up. October—when the detachment of forest rangers would take over the district and protect such lawful industries as Crowson's—was almost at hand. The thought seemed to drive him insane. And one night, when September was almost done, inspiration came to him.
A cowman had come in, complaining of the drought. The streams where his cattle fed were drying up. "Never seen the woods so dry in all my days," the man had said. "Just like tinder. And already most of the cattle have crossed over Eagle Ridge into the Bear Canyon country."
It was enough. He had given Fargo his hint. Certain orders had been dispatched: to drive all the remaining herds into the same region,—a district far from Crowson's range in Smoky Land. And then he had sent for José.
The Mexican was the one man on whom Fargo felt he might rely. José had no ridiculous limits as to conduct, no notch of brutality and crime
